


old dream maker (you heart breaker)

by eros_and_his_philippics



Series: Missing Episodes [2]
Category: Alice Isn't Dead (Podcast)
Genre: Angst, Cheating, F/F, Keisha makes bad impulse decisions, Missing Episodes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-02-23 12:48:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23711770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eros_and_his_philippics/pseuds/eros_and_his_philippics
Summary: I did not put my head in my hands, I am not that ashamed. Not yet, at least.(Isn’t it weird, Alice, how as we go on our daily lives, other people too go on with their own lives, not even an iota of idea what’s happening with ours?)
Relationships: Alice/Keisha | The Narrator (Alice Isn't Dead), Keisha/OFC
Series: Missing Episodes [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/291566
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	old dream maker (you heart breaker)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_cosmos_lonely (dheiress)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dheiress/gifts).



> This is a very ugly, messy fic. AID usually gives me weird but beautifully nostalgic feels but relistening especially to season 2 gives me so many, many ugly, very ugly emotions and I needed to write it to stop it from consuming me.
> 
> Warning: This is a very explicit story. I tried to convey the complexity of Keisha anger and love for Alice in this fic but most of you will probably boil it down to Keisha cheated, and you will not be entirely wrong to say that although I hope I wrote her complexity good enough for some of your sympathy for her. Please turn back if that kind of story triggers you. 
> 
> Takes place vaguely after S02E01 The Last Free Place.

I toss my jacket onto the passenger seat and somewhere from my right, a car honks before pulling out of the parking lot. I put one foot on the brakes, the other on the accelerator. I push neither. I put my hands on the wheel, the engine still dead beneath me. I see the family of three leaving, the waitress cleaning up the remains of their breakfast. A tired man in a gray suit is slumped on the counter, a hand slowly flagging down the waitress.

I did not put my head in my hands, I am not that ashamed. 

Not yet, at least.

Isn’t it weird, Alice, how as we go on our daily lives, other people too go on with their own lives, not even an iota of idea what’s happening with ours?

* * *

We met in this motel slash diner just past Portland.

I don’t quite remember the name but it’s an old, rustic place mixed with the odd charm of both 60’s and 70’s. I walked in and sat in the table nearest the smudged glass door, almost absent-mindedly, my mind still adrift with a black boat on a river. The questions the people on that boat had asked and the answers they had found. The questions I had asked and the answers I had found. The questions I am asking. The answers I have yet to find.

Except for me, the only customers in the diner were a pair of elderly men reading newspapers on the cushioned stools near the bar and a family of three that looked disheveled but at the same time excited. They look like they were on a road trip. The family, I mean, not the pair of elderly men reading the paper. Those two looked like something straight out of a 40’s movie. Old-fashioned pipes in their mouths, nose deep in the folds of the paper even though the lights in the diner must not have been conducive for reading, not a word passed between them. 

The lone waitress approached me, and I don’t know what she saw in my face, or in me as a whole. But she approached me, raised an eyebrow and said, in that tone a mom might scold her child in if she caught them way past their bedtime, “The rooms for rent are on the second floor, sweetie. You can take a nip of rest in there.” I was slightly touched by the concern in her voice but I just shook my head and ordered pancakes and sausages.

The pancakes were buttered up and the sausages were sweeter and greasier than I am accustomed to but the coffee which was on the house was dark and bitter, just as I like it. As I eat my buttery pancakes and greasy sausages, I felt clarity seep into my being, but it was slow, a trickle of consciousness. I don’t know how long it took me to finish my meal but it must be quite some time. The next time, I looked up from plate, the pair of elderly men was gone and the family of three were getting up and heading up the stairs where the rented rooms were presumably located. The waitress was nowhere in sight. 

A woman in a leather jacket sat two tables from me. She was also having pancakes and sausages though her attention at the moment was on the crossword in the newspaper in front of her. 

And for a moment, or maybe three, I thought she was you, Alice. 

I don’t know why I’d thought of it, looking back now, there was really nothing alike to your appearances. But. But there’s something in the way she taps her pencil against her chin that had my gut squeezing. I haven’t forgiven you yet, Alice, I don’t know if I’m able to. But I love you, and I miss you. And the sight of this woman, the curve of her bowed neck, the way her fingers hold the newspaper, not familiar but similar —God, it reminded me painfully of how much I do.

Maybe I’ve been staring at her for a long time, maybe she got a psychic ability to know if strange women were looking at her, remembering their not-dead wives—I don’t know. But she glanced up from her newspaper and our eyes met. Instead of scowling, or anything else you would do when you caught a random stranger in a strange diner staring at you, she cocked her head and smiled.

* * *

Do you remember, Alice?

The first time, our first time?

…I don’t.

* * *

I smiled back, it wasn’t an unfriendly smile. At least I hoped not. Somewhere in the checkered ceiling of the diner were ancient speakers from which Andy Williams crooned about two drifters over and over again. He sang as the woman in the leather jacket and I stare and slowly smile at each other, something electric in her eyes finding an answering call from mine.

She folded her newspaper down and, without breaking eye contact, glided toward the stairs leading to the motel rooms. She only turned her head when she started up the steps. 

An invitation, as clear and direct as one will ever be. 

And Alice—I don’t know, maybe because it’s been almost years, maybe because of Laurel from Cape Disappointment, maybe because of Andy Williams crooning about two drifters from somewhere up in the ceiling, maybe because I want to forget that sinking black boat. 

Maybe because I just want to. 

Alice, honey, I accepted her invitation.

* * *

Making love to you, with you, Alice, was the most natural, inevitable thing I have ever done.

Cliché as it may sound; having your skin pressed upon mine was like coming home. Sharing our breaths? As simple as breathing for myself. When you tangle your fingers in my hair, pull them as you whimper, I feel the most alive and I didn’t, don’t, want you to ever let go. 

Do you remember that time when we parked outside our house? We were from a birthday party, I think. One of my coworkers’, if I remember it correctly. I asked to leave early because I wasn’t really close to anybody there and I can see you getting bored. So. We were parked outside our house, you just turned off the engine but you put a hand on my thigh to stop me from getting out of the car. I had somewhat suspected what you wanted to do but I was momentarily thrown off when all you did was open your window and drum your fingers against my skin. 

“Let’s do it here, chipmunk,” you had said, casually as if we were just discussing if we’re going to have a glass of wine again before bed. “Here, as in the house?” I asked even as your hand trailed further up my skirt. I used to always wore skirts then, remember? Tight, pencil skirts that uncomfortably trace the shape of my lower body because apparently that’s what women in a pre-paid debit cards company should wear. I accidentally bought dozens of them, so I had to wear those skirts even if I’m not working.

You liked hiking them up my thighs, having it bunch around my waist like a bracelet, to get your hands on me, you said it was like putting on a condom in reverse. I just laughed when you told me that, I wouldn’t know what putting on a condom in reverse is like. God, I wouldn’t even know what putting on a condom is like. But. That time in our car, you looked at me, and said “I mean here, _here_ ”, and promptly ripped my skirt open. I gasped, the sudden jerk of the material pulling free and your careless show of strength arousing me immediately.

“Can’t this wait inside,” I had teased even as I let you pull me to you lap, the familiar throb between my legs starting. You just laughed, and then licked a stripe up my neck to my ear. I shuddered; sometimes you were just like an animal with the way you lick and bite whatever part of me you can reach. I loved it. 

You positioned me until I was straddling one of your thighs, my knee pressed against your moist panties. “Don’t bounce too much, chipmunk,” you whispered in my ear as I slowly rode your thigh, your hands slipping into my blouse, undoing my bra and pushing it up to grasp my breasts. Your thumbs found my nipples instantly and I can’t help but moan when you rubbed them in that circular motion. As if you were playing one of those video games you like and I’m your PSP joystick. “Uh, uh,” I had gasped as you continued fondling me, my head dropping so that our foreheads are touching, our breaths sharing.

It was almost midnight but some of our neighbors were still awake, you can see their silhouettes moving through their pastel curtains. If somebody decided to look out, they would see us, me on your lap, heads bent together. Wouldn’t take a genius to realize what we were doing.

“Don’t moan too much, either,” you said, even though you were breathless too and your hips were thrusting against mine. I could feel the car slightly rocking. You were already so wet from where my knee was nudging. My underwear was soaked, your thigh covered in my slick. Alice, I—

* * *

Inside her room, my shirt was thrown haphazardly onto the floor, as was her skirt. “A skirt and a leather jacket,” I laughed as I strip her of the said jacket. She pushed me and I fell down, still laughing, on her bed which was unbearably soft and smelled faintly of vanilla. “Got a problem with that?” she asked, her voice a purr, her legs bracketing my jean-clad thighs. “No, ah, none at all,” I gasped as she grinded her hips down punishingly on mine. I pushed back with my hips, almost dislodging her. She moaned, a lewd sound that squeezed juices out of me. 

I missed it, Alice. The heavy pressure grinding on my hips. The damp warmth rubbing against my thigh. The hands anchoring me down. I missed it, I miss you.

She was wearing, uh, thin, white cotton panties, printed with—ah, uh—with large smiling sunflowers. You used to wear one like that, I think. I ripped it from her, my left hand clutching half of its front rim, my right hand the other half. Both hands moving away from each other, swiftly and without any warning, until the cloth splits to two, baring her clean shaven mound—Fuck, the sound she made, uhm, like a squeak but lower, slower. Rougher on her throat. I palmed her for a moment, watching her throw her head back, her long hair tumbling down in waves against her arched back. Her neck was a long seductive curve I want to lick, want to bite. She rode my palm until I can feel more of her slick, until she suddenly dropped and mouthed my stomach. She trailed down to—god, I don’t even know when she got my pants and underwear off, but she tongued a straight line from my bellybutton to my bush-covered lips—

* * *

I don’t, didn’t understand people who can have sex with people they barely know.

Isn’t it such an intimate act? Trusting your body, the shell of your entire being, into the hands of another. It’s a confirmation of a bond, an affirmation of the vows that you had pledged at each at other. Of keeping each other safe, of serving each other’s wants and needs, of being someone—being someone the other can trust—

…You’re laughing, aren’t you, Alice?

* * *

I came on her tongue, thrashing and grasping her thick hair. It has been too long for me, so it was short work for her. The room circled around me for quite sometime. When I finally looked at her, she showed her tongue, swallowed it and smiled at me.

* * *

I miss you—

Sometimes, I wish—

* * *

She had a strap-on, jesus, it was rainbow colored and much, much bigger than the one we used to have, Alice. Much bigger. I didn’t even know there were bigger sizes than the one you picked.

“Well, aren’t you a girl scout,” I said, laughter spilling out as she brandished the toy before me like a kid in show-and-tell. She giggled, I found the sound of her refreshing, like the tinkling of wind chimes during a summer breeze.

“I am,” she said as she strapped the toy on, “aren’t you a lucky girl for it?”

My pussy was wet with my own juices and her saliva but I would still need preparation. She knew this too, I saw her reaching for something else from her nightstand drawer. The same drawer from where she pulled the toy. It was lube she wanted, I think. I stopped her, my hand lightly gripping her wrist, around the thin butterfly bracelet she wore. I shook my head. I wanted it to burn.

* * *

What am I doing? I told myself I would never talk like this to you again. I told myself I’ll let you go, wait for you to return to me. But god, I can’t—I can’t.

Have you fucked other women, Alice? Have you let them fuck you? Or have you had men, Alice? Rolled those fruity flavored condoms onto their cocks and allowed their flesh to rock inside you? Have you gasped another name, whimpered for them to go faster—

* * *

“Fuck, fuck, uh-huh, f-fuck! Oh god, harder, baby, ah, _ah,_ harder, deeper, come on, come on, oh—you’re so good to me, so good, fuck, I can’t, I can’t even— faster, honey, jesus! Fuck, fuck, oh, oh-uh, _uh, uh_ —!”

* * *

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, Alice, love, I am so sorry—

* * *

God, she’s hitting spots I didn’t even know existed. Our breasts are grinding together, nipples swollen and hard from the friction. She makes a grinding action that has me blanking out, my toes curling. One hand on her flexing ass, the other clutching her shoulder as I follow the rhythm she dances to. My legs are wrapped around her slender waist and I can’t help but moan, cry loudly against her neck.

Someone’s knocking on the wall, angry and cursing. We ignore it. In fact, I think, it just makes both of us more aroused, knowing someone’s listening. That someone else is hearing the sharp slaps of sweat-slicked flesh, the breathless gasps of two women, the rickety rocking of the vanilla-scented bed. She times her thrusts with the thumping from the other side of the wall and I can’t help but answer her with wilder bucks. I buried my face further against her neck, licking her sweat, tasting coffee and vanilla and sex. One of her hands is braced on the side of my head, supporting her. The other has its fingers teasing my ass, running along the crack in a sinuous movement that makes both my holes clench in greedy anticipation.

She runs her tongue up my neck, licking fervently up to my earlobes. She kisses the underside of my ear, sucks hard a bruise high up there. I let her. I’m crying, I think, at this point. She swallows my tears as easily as she did my cum. This, I also let her do.

When my orgasm comes, I don’t quite know whose name I’m screaming.

* * *

I didn’t kiss her, Alice.

* * *

It’s loneliness, isn’t it?

It can kill people, sometimes literally, but most times, in ways more painful than the literal. 

It makes you seek out comfort, however temporary, in the arms of another person; makes you want to hear someone say, however untruthful, ‘I am here with you’. It makes you abandon the person you are, were, to share your warmth with someone else, even if just for a moment.

* * *

I don’t remember our first time, Alice. Being with you had become so natural, I can’t quite remember when it started. All I know that it is the way of things, a part of me as much as the voice I’m speaking to you with.

My breasts heavy against yours, my hand clutched in yours, my legs tangled with yours, my mouth upon yours.

More than the mind-numbing release, more than the tortuous pleasure, more than anything—I miss having someone with me, Alice. Someone I trust, someone I love.

I miss you, Alice, the little time we spent together before I went against the Thistle Men, the lingering kisses we shared, they all just emphasized the life I had with you, the life I want to continue living with you.

Can we still do that, Alice? Are you still someone I can trust, can love?

…Am I still that someone for you?


End file.
